Visions
by FranticArmoire
Summary: One moment, Harry is hunting Horcruxes, the next, he's nearly eleven years old and about to start his first year at Hogwarts. He's determined to use this second chance for the better, but something isn't quite right. Certainly not messages that appear to be from himself, and certainly not glimpses of lives he's never lived...
1. The Note

**A/N: Oomph. So... this one is a bit of a doozy. I've had the idea for quite some time, though I've only recently been able to solidify the details into something that makes some sort of sense. For those who are curious, the setting is canon, though I won't be writing the same events from the books year by year- things will definitely be changing, and pretty dramatically in some cases. Feel free to ask questions; I'm always happy to clear up any confusion!**

**Most importantly, thank you so much to my good friend David for helping in the planning and development of this fic. You are awesome.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

* * *

_Visions_

* * *

**Chapter One: The Note**

It took several moments for Harry to realize that something wasn't right. It took him several moments to realize much of anything, really. He wasn't sure how long he'd been lying there, staring at something brown and blurry above him, completely unaware of who or where he was.

His head was pounding. Harry reached up and reflexively rubbed his scar, but the pain wasn't localized, instead spreading from temple to temple. He blinked once, twice, but his surroundings were still blurry- where were his glasses? Harry pushed himself up with one hand, using the other to blindly search around him, and before long he found what he was looking for. As he put them on, it vaguely registered in his mind that there was a large amount of tape wrapped around the bridge. That wasn't right. Hadn't his glasses been fixed years ago?

Even with improved sight, it took a moment for Harry's eyes to adjust to wherever he was. There was next to no light, aside from that coming from a crack in the small door to his right. Harry slid two fingers beneath his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and glanced up to see the wooden underside of a staircase. It was familiar, except-

Harry blinked. The _cupboard?_

It _was_ the cupboard. The cupboard under the stairs. Not the cupboard he'd glanced into before leaving 4 Privet Drive with the Order more than half a year ago- that cupboard had been filled with cleaning supplies and discarded rain boots. The cupboard he was in now was the cupboard of his childhood- he was lying on a small camp bed with a blanket that didn't quite smell right. On the shelves behind him were Dudley's secondhand clothes, untidily folded in a small heap. There was a spider on the stairs above him, and several more on the wall. His schoolbooks- his _Muggle_ schoolbooks were under the bed, as were several small, broken toys he'd nicked from the trash over the years. It had been more than six years since he'd slept here, but it was as though nothing had changed.

Was he dreaming? Harry crossed his legs underneath him and slowly breathed in the musty air. He couldn't remember having gone to sleep- actually, he couldn't remember much of anything. Not specifics, at least. He knew he'd been hunting Horcruxes with Hermione, on the run from Death Eaters. Ron had left them a few weeks ago. It had been winter, probably close to Christmas-

And yet he couldn't remember what had come immediately before waking up in the cupboard. He could remember various dinners with Hermione, but not the most recent one. Everything before this moment was a hazy blur of running and hiding and searching for information that might help them defeat Voldemort once and for all.

It was rather like a dream, now that he thought about it, and yet- it _wasn't_. Harry was never this self aware in his dreams; he never realized he was dreaming to begin with. And his dreams tended to be more on the surreal side, even more surreal than _this._ He thought back to dreams of Quirrell's turban talking to him, and of Christmas baubles shaped like Dobby's head. This was... well, it just wasn't like those dreams.

It suddenly occurred to him that there was a scrap of parchment folded and stuck between two of the fingers on the same hand he'd used to find his glasses. Pushing open the cupboard door so there was a bit more light, Harry unfolded it with fumbling fingers. With a jolt, he immediately recognized his own handwriting.

_You're getting a second chance. Don't ask why, and don't tell anyone. Just go with it- trust me on this._

Harry stared at the three sentences as though he expected more writing to appear underneath them. The rest of the parchment was completely blank, however. Harry reached for his wand, planning on using a Revealing Charm to uncover a possible hidden message, when he realized that if he was in the cupboard, he didn't have a wand yet- he didn't even know about _magic_ yet.

"Good, you're up, I was about to wake you. Get in the kitchen- I've started on the eggs, so you just need to keep them from burning."

Harry jumped so abruptly he nearly smacked his head on the cupboard's door frame. Standing in the kitchen doorway was Aunt Petunia, but slightly different than she'd appeared the last time he'd seen her. She was younger- there weren't any lines around her eyes, and hair was just a bit longer. Unable to move, he simply stared. She frowned at him.

"What are you looking at?" Her eyes traveled down to the note in his hand. "What is that?"

_Don't tell anyone._

Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out. This was insane- this was _impossible_-

_Just go with it._

"Nothing," Harry said at last, and once again he jumped, this time at how high his voice was. How old _was _he? He pushed the note into his pocket- he'd slept in his clothes, it seemed. "It's nothing."

Aunt Petunia's frown deepened, but she didn't push the issue, instead returning to the kitchen with a jerk of the head that indicating he was to follow.

Harry shakily got to his feet, and his body felt all wrong. He was too short, and his legs were too thin. Gripping the side of the stairs, he took a deep breath and slowly steadied himself. He could do this. He could do this-

_Just go with it._

He didn't know what was going on, but if that note was really from himself, he'd probably had a good reason to write it. Was it really from himself, though? How could he know this wasn't a trap, or an illusion, or-

_Just go with it._

What year was it, anyway? God, if it turned out he was eight or nine and had to live with the Dursleys for the next few _years_-

A foul odor hit his nostrils the moment he stepped into the kitchen. Not having expected it, Harry needed to steady himself once again before seeing the metal tub in the sink, in which there appeared to be dirty rags swimming in gray water. This was familiar- he remembered it, but only vaguely. Aunt Petunia hadn't looked at him since he'd gotten to his feet, and she only turned around once he cleared his throat.

"What's that?" he asked, gesturing at the rags.

Aunt Petunia gave him the same look she always had when he'd asked questions as a child, and said shortly, "Your new school uniform."

His uniform? It took him a moment to remember- Stonewall High. Meaning he was eleven- no, not eleven, technically he was still ten. Ten years old, about to turn eleven, about to learn the truth about his parents, about his scar-

_Just go with it._

The words barely had any meaning to him by this point, but just repeating them in his head was doing wonders for calming himself down. Nothing made sense, but he was oddly calm about the whole thing. Too calm- it didn't seem natural. What was going on? Why was he-

_Just go with it._

Dudley and Uncle Vernon both entered the kitchen, making faces as they smelled Harry's uniform. Just like Aunt Petunia, they looked younger than Harry remembered, particularly Dudley. Gone were the muscles he'd obtained from boxing; instead, Harry saw the face of the unpleasant child who'd considered Harry Hunting to be one of his favorite hobbies. He was carrying his Smelting stick, which he banged on the table as Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper.

There was a click from the direction of the front door, and the faint thud of letters landing on the doormat.

Uncle Vernon didn't move from behind the newspaper. "Get the mail, Dudley."

"Make Harry get it."

"Get the mail, Harry."

It was familiar- familiar, yet so far off, as though it had happened in another lifetime. Harry stood staring for so long that his uncle finally lowered his paper and repeated himself, scowling. Dodging a poke from Dudley's Smelting stick, Harry quickly made his way to the hallway, where three pieces of mail were waiting for him. He barely noticed the postcard from Aunt Marge or the envelope that looked like a bill, instead zeroing in on the parchment envelope:

_Mr. H. Potter  
__The Cupboard under the Stairs  
4 Privet Drive  
__Little Whinging  
Surrey_

His Hogwarts letter. Harry stared at it, not sure what he was meant to do. He pulled the note out of his pocket and read it once again-

___You're getting a second chance. Don't ask why, and don't tell anyone. Just go with it- trust me on this._  


But what did that _mean?_ He wasn't supposed to tell anyone, but at the same time, he was being given a 'second chance'. If he wasn't supposed to tell everyone that he was really seventeen and knew what the future held, how in the world was he supposed to change things?

Harry leaned against the door and tried to wrestle his thoughts into something manageable. He had to decide what he was going to do. All right- all right, the note was from him, so he should trust what it said. At least, it seemed to be from him- how was he to know it wasn't a Death Eater impersonating his handwriting, or Voldemort himself? Maybe this was all just a big trap.

"Hurry up, boy!" Uncle Vernon shouted from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?"

Except why would Voldemort send him back in time? The last time Harry had checked, he seemed to be doing a damn good job at taking over Britain, and giving Harry the chance to do things over made no sense at all. But if Harry had sent _himself_ back- well, how the hell had he managed that? He'd never heard of a spell to send someone back to a younger body, and all the Time Turners had been destroyed back during his fifth year. Besides, Time Turners couldn't send someone this far back in time, and even if they did, he'd still have his seventeen-year-old body, not his nearly-eleven-year-old one.

_How?_ How had he sent himself back in time? Why couldn't he remember anything leading up to it? Why wasn't he supposed to tell anyone? What was he supposed to do?

"Boy!" Uncle Vernon shouted again, this time more impatiently. "What's taking so long?"

He could hear a chair scraping back, and the heavy footsteps of his uncle approaching the hallway. Harry couldn't move- his thoughts were racing- what would his past self- his future self?- what would the version of himself who had apparently sent himself back in time want him to do? And why couldn't he _remember?_

Uncle Vernon was getting closer- Harry could see him in the kitchen doorway-

The note was still in his hand-

___You're getting a second chance._

A second chance- maybe he could stop Voldemort this time, before he came back to power-

___Don't ask why, and don't tell anyone._

Uncle Vernon was in the hallway now, clearly annoyed at being ignored, saying something Harry couldn't hear over the rushing in his ears-

___Just go with it- trust me on this._

Not quite knowing what he was going to do until he actually did it, Harry took a large step toward the stairs and quickly started up them, shoving the note in his pocket once again and dropping the postcard and bill. He tore open the Hogwarts envelope and yanked the letter free, tearing it slightly in the process. Uncle Vernon followed him, confused and annoyed, not realizing yet what his nephew was holding.

"What do you think you're doing? Give me that, right now-"

Harry scanned the letter- it was exactly the same as he remembered it. Not a thing had changed, aside from the fact that the last time he'd read it he'd been in a hut on a rock in the middle of nowhere.

"I said give-" Uncle Vernon stopped speaking abruptly as he saw the crest on the envelope in Harry's hand. His eyes widened, and he stepped backwards looking both furious and terrified; Harry thought for a moment that he might fall backwards down the stairs.

Harry lowered the note, and, with a new surge of adrenaline, forced himself to look confused, as though he were a ten year old boy with no idea what was going on. "What's Hogwarts? What does this letter mean? Am I... am I a wizard?"

* * *

His aunt and uncle had been arguing for nearly twenty minutes. Both Harry and Dudley had been banished from the kitchen, but that wasn't stopping Dudley from pressing his ear against the keyhole, his face screwed up tight in concentration. Harry, on the other hand, had returned to the stairs, choosing to sit on the bottom step, trying to figure out just what was going on.

Dudley turned away from the keyhole, his face screwed up in confusion at all the attention his cousin was getting. "What's going on in there? What did that letter say?"

Harry ran a hand through his hair. For the first time he was excited, even hopeful- he had no clue what was going on, but like the note said, he was trying to just go with it.

"It's from some place called Hogwarts," he said. "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It said that I've been accepted, apparently."

Dudley gaped at him, his lips soundlessly repeating the name of the school. "But... but there's no such thing as witchcraft or wizardry."

It was hard not to grin, not to start laughing uncontrollably. This was impossible, all of it was impossible, and yet- well, Harry was just going to go with it, at least for now. Nothing seemed real; it hadn't begun to sink in yet. And the prospect of having a second chance... of being able to prevent everything from going as wrong as it had the first time around...

"I dunno," he said, a little too cheerfully. "Maybe there is. I mean... I've done some pretty strange things without meaning to, haven't I? Like the snake at the zoo, and flying up to the school roof-"

Dudley let out a terrified squeaking noise and took a step back. As there was nothing but the door behind him, he only found himself pressed against it, as though it too would vanish like the glass at the zoo. "Don't be stupid- those were- those were accidents-"

There was a loud slam from the kitchen, and Dudley leaped toward the stairs with a yelp.

"-can only imagine what the neighbors will say-"

"Vernon, shh!" Aunt Petunia's voice was barely audible, though it was louder than it had been at any point since she'd disappeared into the kitchen with Uncle Vernon. "They'll hear-"

The door swung open; Dudley narrowly missed being hit in the face by the doorknob. Uncle Vernon stood in the open doorway, his fleshy face bright red and his chest heaving as though he'd been running for his life. "You. Boy. In the kitchen. Now."

"I want to come too," Dudley said loudly as Uncle Vernon made to started the door behind them. "Is Harry really a wizard?"

Uncle Vernon's face went from red to purple. "SILENCE! Don't you ever say that word!"

Aunt Petunia was near tears, and she sank into a chair with her hands covering her face as Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. "Oh, Vernon, what are we going to do?"

"Boy." Uncle Vernon swallowed, appearing as though he wasn't sure if he should be authoritative or companionable. "This... this letter you received, it's... it's nothing more than a prank. I don't know who sent it, but you're not to believe a word it says."

Did his uncle really think he was that stupid? Harry tried to keep his tone innocent as he said, "But... it explains so much. All the strange things I can do. And if it's fake, why are you and Aunt Petunia so upset?"

"I said it's a _prank!_" Uncle Vernon snapped, all pretenses of being friendly vanishing. "And you'll treat it as such-"

"Vernon." Aunt Petunia's head was still in her hands, and she wasn't looking at either of them. "It's too late. We can't hide it anymore- he's been doing more and more freakish things-"

"So it's true?" Harry asked, over his uncle's incoherent sputters. "I'm... a wizard?"

"_Don't say that word!_" Uncle Vernon shouted as Aunt Petunia began to sob.

Harry ignored them both. "And I'm supposed to go to a school called Hogwarts?"

"You most certainly are not!" Uncle Vernon said before Aunt Petunia could speak. "We swore when we took you in that we were going to- going to stamp it out of you! We're going to ignore it- they won't get an answer, and they'll give up-"

"Vernon-"

"He's going to Stonewall, and that's final!" Uncle Vernon roared, so loudly that Harry was quite certain the neighbors down the street must have heard him. "We're not having one in the house, Petunia!"

When Aunt Petunia didn't respond, instead letting out a loud sob and clutching at her face even more fervently, he turned to Harry and said, "You- go to your cupboard. When I get home from work, we'll-"

"No," Harry said calmly. The expression on his uncle's face was nearly comical. By the time he was nearly eleven, Harry hadn't been frightened of him for some time, but he still generally didn't talk back to him very much. "If all this is true, and I really am a wizard, I think I'll be going to this Hogwarts."

Things were different already, and without him revealing anything- if the past could be changed this easily, maybe he had a chance at turning things in his favor this time around. If he could find out about Hogwarts without Hagrid pounding the door down, why couldn't he destroy the Horcruxes without anyone realizing he was really seventeen? Of course, that would be much more difficult than what he'd done today, but- but he had the time to do it this time around, especially considering the fact that Voldemort didn't have a body-

"Don't- say-!" Uncle Vernon had taken hold of a dishrag and was wringing it violently in his hands. "Petunia-!"

"It's too late," Aunt Petunia said. She finally looked up and made eye contact with him. "He saw the letter. He already knows. He's a... a _wizard_." She spat the word out as though it were something foul, and, redirecting her gaze to Harry, added, "It's not something to be proud of. Your mother was just like you- just as _freakish_. We tried to stamp it out of you, tried to turn you into something _normal_, but I suppose it was useless."

"So... I can go?" Harry asked, hardly believing his luck. He hadn't expected his aunt to give up so easily, but, then again, the wild goose chase the first time around had mainly been his uncle's doing.

"Do what you want," she snapped. "I don't care anymore- I've done all I can, but you're still one of _them_. Go off with the other freaks for all I care, but it's on you to get your- your _supplies_."

She gestured at the letter, which Harry realized was lying face down on the kitchen table, as though someone there was the risk of someone looking in from outside being able to read it. Harry reached for it, and read through both pages, focusing mainly on the second, which listed the required supplies for his first year at school. Nowhere on it did it say where they were to be purchased, nor were there any mentions of Diagon Alley. "But... where am I supposed to get them?"

"Like I said," Aunt Petunia said, a small gleam of triumph in her eyes, "It's on you. You can figure it out."

Harry stared at her. He knew perfectly well that all he had to do was go to Diagon Alley, but he wasn't _supposed_ to know that. And even if he did, how was he supposed to get to London by himself? It wasn't _that _far by train, but he didn't have the money to buy a ticket, and there was no way he could walk the journey. He didn't have a wand, so he couldn't hail the Knight Bus, nor did he have access to Floo Powder. He had no contact with the Wizarding world whatsoever, except-

"All right." Harry turned around and started toward the kitchen door.

"Boy, where are you going?" Uncle Vernon shouted after him as Dudley howled in pain, the doorknob catching him directly below the eye. _"Boy!"_

It all still felt very much like a dream. Harry walked swiftly down the front path and across the street, half expecting at any moment to wake up in the tent in the woods. Maybe this wasn't real at all. Maybe it was just a very odd dream. Maybe it wasn't. Either way, it all seemed slightly unreal, and Harry wondered just how he'd react once everything fully sunk in. It hadn't yet, though, so he was just... going with it.

Once he reached the end of Privet Drive, Harry turned onto Magnolia Street and ducked down the same alley in which he and Dudley had once been (would be? Not this time around, at least not if he had anything to say about it) attacked by Dementors. Up ahead, he could just see Wisteria Walk. With the kind of confidence that comes from not fully believing something is actually happening, he approached one of the many nearly identical houses and knocked on the door.

It took several moments for the door to open. When it did, Harry was faced with a very surprised Mrs. Figg, who was supporting herself with a pair of crutches. "Harry! What a surprise!"

Once again arranging his expression into one of confusion and surprise, he said, "Mrs. Figg, I'm sorry to bother you, it's just- it's just-"

Mrs. Figg looked down at him, clearly concerned, and stepped aside. "Come in, boy, and sit down- Mr. Tibbles, get out of the way-"

One of several cats that Harry suspected were at least part Kneazle meowed loudly and wound around his legs. Harry stepped to the side and said, "I just got the strangest letter, to- to a school that says I'm- I'm a _wizard_, and my aunt and uncle said it's true but they won't help me get there or buy supplies, and I didn't know who else to go to- I mean, you've always let me stay here when the Dursleys are busy, and I just thought that- that maybe you could help me- I'm sorry, I just- I didn't know who to- who to-"

It had worked. Mrs. Figg's expression was frozen into one of surprise and horror, and she quickly pulled him further inside, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

The smell of cabbage really wasn't that bad once you got used to it, Harry thought as he sat on one of Mrs. Figg's musty old couches, skimming through a photo album filled with pictures of her many cats. There were hushed voices from inside the kitchen- two of them, though they spoke so softly that Harry couldn't make anything out.

Harry took a sip of milk from the glass Mrs. Figg had brought him more than half an hour ago, before the stranger in the kitchen had arrived. It still hadn't sunk in. When was it going to? Was he going to feel as though he were in some sort of odd dream forever?

One of the cats- his name tag read 'Tufty'- hopped onto the couch next to Harry, and he absentmindedly scratched him behind the ears while trying to identify the second voice in the kitchen. It was too muffled to decipher; all he knew was that it belonged to a woman. He considered eavesdropping at the door, but before he could put his plan into action, the door swung open, and Harry found himself face-to-face with none other than Professor McGonagall.

"Well," she said, glancing up and down and taking in his appearance. She frowned, and Harry was more aware than ever of his baggy clothes and poorly repaired glasses. "I don't imagine you remember me, Mr. Potter- it's been quite some time since I last saw you. My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts."

"Er," Harry said, his voice catching in his throat. He stood up, trying not to look as surprised as he felt. "Hello, Professor."

Of course- Hogwarts sent out a professor to explain to Muggleborn students that they were wizards. Hagrid had shown up for him the first time around, but he'd been a special case- he wasn't a Muggleborn, and it probably hadn't helped that the Dursleys had been trying to run away.

"Have a seat." Professor McGonagall's tone was businesslike but sympathetic, and as she sat opposite him, Harry noted that she seemed much more gentle than usual. "From what I've heard, you received your Hogwarts letter today."

"That's... that's right." Harry wasn't sure how he was supposed to react- how had he reacted the first time around? He hadn't believed it, had he? Remembering his surprise and confusion in the hut, he said, "But... that can't be true. I can't be a wizard. Magic isn't real."

Without the slightest change in expression or even a hint of a smile, Professor McGonagall reached into her robes and pulled out her wand. With a wordless flick, two scarves, one golden and one red, burst force from the tip and glided through the air before knotting themselves in a perfectly symmetrical bow. She lowered her wand, and the scarves dropped to the floor.

"Magic _is_ real, Mr. Potter, though many people aren't aware of that fact. I had assumed before today, however, that you already knew of its existence- have your aunt and uncle told you nothing about the magical world?"

"They haven't told him anything," Mrs. Figg said sharply, having entered the room without Harry realizing it. "It's like I've been telling Dumbledore all these years-"

Professor McGonagall held up a hand and motioned for Harry to answer the question.

"I... No, they didn't tell me anything." He glanced back and forth between the two of them. "But... you knew, Mrs. Figg? Who else knows?"

Mrs. Figg smiled weakly at him. "I'm a Squib, boy. Born to two magical parents, but without any magic myself."

"Aside from you and your family, Mrs. Figg is the only person in your town to know of our world," Professor McGonagall explained. "It was quite lucky on your part that she was the person you thought to go to- there are strict laws against revealing our existence to Muggles- that is, non-magical people. Of course, you had no way of knowing this," she added in a softer tone. "However, you must not discuss magic with anyone who is not a part of our world."

"Oh- I'm sorry, I didn't realize-"

"Again, you had no way of knowing. Your circumstances are quite unusual. If I'd realized you didn't already know of your abilities, I would have personally delivered your letter with an explanation..." She trailed off, frowning. "Your family told you _nothing?_"

Harry shook his head, and her lips became thinner. "Well. I can't say I approve of their decision, but they must have had a reason for making it."

Mrs. Figg muttered something under her breath that Harry couldn't make out, but Professor McGonagall evidently heard, as she shot her a reproachful look before continuing. "Mrs. Figg also told me that your aunt and uncle refused to take you to buy supplies."

"That's right," Harry said quickly. "And I don't know where to get any of these things- like a wand, or a cauldron-"

Professor McGonagall rose to her feet, and was already halfway to the door before Harry registered that she'd said, "Follow me."

"Er-" Harry stood up and hurried after her, only pausing at the door to turn to Mrs. Figg and call out a hasty farewell. "Professor, where-"

"You live on Privet Drive, if I'm not mistaken?" she asked only slightly slowing her gait to allow Harry to keep up. He'd forgotten just how short his legs had once been.

"Yeah, but-"

"Follow me," she said again, turning down the same alleyway Harry had just cut through less than an hour ago. "And keep up, won't you?"

They were halfway down Privet Drive when Aunt Petunia appeared in the door of house number 4, her mouth open in horror at the sight of a woman wearing long robes and pointed hat sweeping down her perfectly ordinary street, past the perfectly ordinary neighbors. In addition to said horror, she seemed equally shocked that Harry had somehow managed to find a magical person seemingly out of nowhere within an hour of finding out that he was, in fact, a wizard.

"Mrs. Dursley," Professor McGonagall said curtly with a small nod. To Uncle Vernon, who had appeared behind Aunt Petunia and looked just as surprised and horrified, she added, "Mr. Dursley. I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts."

"What- what on Earth-" Aunt Petunia sputtered, but was silenced simply by a raised hand from Professor McGonagall, who studied both her and Uncle Vernon icily.

"I'm here to tell you that I've spoken to the boy, and he will be attending Hogwarts." She paused, then turned to Harry. "You _will_ be attending, I assume?"

"Yes," Harry said, just as Uncle Vernon snarled, "He most certainly will _not_."

Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrows. "I'm afraid that's not your decision to make, Mr. Dursley. You may be Mr. Potter's guardian, but it was the desire of his parents that he attend Hogwarts, and as he has no complaint I'm afraid you cannot stop him."

"Is that so?" Uncle Vernon was still clutching the dishrag from before, and he tugged at it now more violently than ever. "I'd just like to see you try-"

"Vernon-" Aunt Petunia had backed down, it was clear to Harry that she had given up what she knew to be a hopeless battle. "It's useless."

Professor McGongall inclined her head. "Thank you, Mrs. Dursley. I don't imagine you remember me, but-"

"Yes, I remember you," Aunt Petunia cut in. "Of _course_ I remember you, showing up for my sister and _whisking_ her away just like you are now. It's disgusting- you're _f__reaks,_ the lot of you-"

"That's enough," Professor McGonagall said, so sharply that even Harry was startled. "As I was saying, you will either take the boy to Diagon Alley in London to buy his supplies, or the school will appoint a guardian to bring him at a later date. Term begins on the first of September. You _will_ escort him to Kings Cross Station so he can take the Hogwarts Express to school. Do I make myself clear?"

Aunt Petunia was silent for a moment; Harry wasn't sure if she was going to respond. Uncle Vernon seemed utterly incapable of speech, instead wordlessly gesturing at the air around him.

"Fine," she said at last. "We'll take him to Kings Cross, but don't expect for a moment that we're taking him to that- that _alleyway_ in London. You can send whomever you want, but tell them- tell them to dress _normally!_" She glanced up and down the street, her face bright red as she pretended not to see the neighbors staring at them.

"He's not going," Uncle Vernon said hoarsely, but it was clear that even he was backing down, accepting the inevitable. Harry supposed that when it came down to it, Professor McGonagall was just as intimidating as Hagrid wielding an umbrella.

"Yes," Professor McGonagall said brusquely. "He is. Well, I must be going- this was an unexpected detour, and there are quite a few other Muggleborn children set to start this year whose letters I must deliver. Mr. Potter, a guardian will be sent to your house this Saturday at noon to escort you to Diagon Alley. Please do try to be ready on time."

Before Harry could respond, she turned to the Dursleys and added, "In the meantime, I expect you to treat your nephew civilly. If you don't..." She retrieved her wand from her pocket and studied it for a moment, ignoring both Aunt Petunia's gasps of horror and her motions to shield the offending object from the sight of the neighbors. "...I will know. Good day."

Without another word, she turned on her heel and started back down the path across the front garden, seemingly oblivious to the stares of the other residents of Privet Drive. They, along with Harry and the Dursleys, watched in silence as she turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

* * *

It wasn't real. It was a dream. It wasn't a dream. Was it?

Harry wasn't sure _what_ had happened today, but he hadn't woken up so far, and part of him suspected that he wasn't about to anytime soon. The Dursleys, taking Professor McGonagall's order to treat him 'civilly' to heart, had almost immediately given him Dudley's second bedroom once they'd returned inside, and had proceeded to ignore him for the rest of the day, which he certainly didn't mind. Outside, Dudley was throwing a tantrum about having to give his room up, but Harry knew all his screams and wails would be useless, just as they had been last time.

Hundreds of plans flitted across his head- what was he going to do first? What could he do to stop Voldemort while pretending to be an oblivious first year? And how was he going to pull it off without telling _anyone? _Surely he wasn't supposed to keep it a _total_ secret. Still, the note had been clear... _why _couldn't he remember writing it? Why couldn't he remember anything leading up to today? Maybe it was a mistake; maybe just accepting the note at word value was a bad idea. But what else was he supposed to do? He'd apparently written it, and he'd wanted him to trust himself, to just go with it-

Harry closed his eyes and flopped backwards onto the bed, tuning out a particularly loud scream from his cousin. Just go with it. Just listen to the note. Just... just _go_ with it-

It _still_ hadn't sunk in yet, but just going with it was getting harder and harder.

Right, so... well, first of all, he needed to get to Hogwarts as a first year and somehow reveal that Scabbers was really Peter Pettigrew without making himself look suspicious. Sirius would be freed from Azkaban, and he wouldn't die this time around- Harry would see to that. At the same time, he needed to track down whatever Horcruxes he could, and somehow figure out a way to destroy them while finding out where and what the others were.

There was the diary- Lucius Malfoy had that now, didn't he? He'd have to find a way of getting it from him. Slytherin's locket was at 12 Grimmauld Place; maybe once he freed Sirius he could visit and take it when no one was looking. The ring would still be hidden in the Gaunt shack at this point, and he had no clue where Hufflepuff's cup was. As for Nagini- well, he wasn't sure where she was either. And there was one more Horcrux that even Dumbledore hadn't known about- something that had belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw, most likely, but even Dumbledore hadn't known what or where it was.

Meaning... well, this probably wasn't going to be easy, not even with a chance to do it over. But if Voldemort was prevented from rising to power again, there would be time this time around to figure things out. And he already knew how to tackle the first Horcrux. He'd somehow manage to get Sirius released from Azkaban, and then he'd be able find the locket as an added bonus. It was going to be difficult, but... well, maybe he had a chance.

"BUT I DON'T _WANT _HIM IN MY ROOM!" Dudley screamed at the top of his lungs, followed by the sound of shattering glass- it seemed that once again he'd tossed his turtle through the greenhouse roof, just as he had the last time Harry had been given his second bedroom. "YOU CAN'T MAKE ME GIVE IT UP!"

Harry opened his eyes, and without any warning whatsoever found himself standing in front of Cedric Diggory.

"What-?"

This wasn't the Cedric he remembered. He was older, far older than he'd been when he'd died, and there was something reddish staining his clothes-

Cedric dropped to the ground, and Harry moved, despite not actively telling his brain to. His body was reacting of its own accord, as was his mouth-

"Cedric, no, you're all right-" Harry began to haul him to her feet- why were they in a cave?- and then he was back in his bedroom, listening to Dudley scream and wail in the garden.

Harry jumped to his feet, reflexively reaching for his wand before remembering he didn't have one yet. The vision had vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. Harry glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see Cedric again, but no one was there. It was as though nothing had happened.

Harry sat down at his desk, breathing heavily. It had almost been like the link he shared with Voldemort, except he hadn't been in Voldemort's body. He'd heard _himself_ speak; that had been his own voice- the voice he'd had when he was older, not the prepubescent one he was sporting now. And Cedric- Cedric had never lived to his twenties, not like the Cedric he'd just seen appeared to be.

Almost as though he expected the message to have changed, Harry held the scrap of parchment he'd woken up with in front of his face and read the note he'd long since memorized for what felt like the thousandth time:

_You're getting a second chance. Don't ask why, and don't tell anyone. Just go with it- trust me on this._

But it didn't say anything about visions, especially not of things he had never experienced. Was this just one of the things he was supposed to 'go with'?

"I DON'T CARE- IT'S _MY_ ROOM! HE CAN'T HAVE IT!"

He was ten years old, almost eleven, none of the last six and a half years had happened, and he was seeing strange things.

What the bloody hell was _happening?_

"Dudley, get inside-"

"IT'S _MY _ROOM! IT'S NOT _FAIR!_"

Harry took a deep breath and tried to stay calm, but it was impossible. In his hand, the note seemed to be mocking him with its refusal to explain a damn thing.

Well. It looked like it was finally starting to sink in.

* * *

**Oh, thank God the obligatory exposition chapter is done.**


	2. Visions

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews/adds, everyone.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

* * *

**Chapter Two: Visions**

It was nearly noon.

Neither Harry nor the Dursleys had said a single word since breakfast. All of them except Harry had dressed in their best clothes; it reminded him of the time the Weasleys had burst through the boarded-up fireplace the summer before his fourth year. Well, at least he'd managed to prevent one casualty so far- there hadn't been any letters down the chimney this time around, meaning the Dursleys' fireplace would live to see another day. He'd chosen to take this as a good sign of things to come.

Three days had passed since Harry had found himself in his ten-year-old body, and it all still felt slightly like a dream. He hadn't woken up so far, though, and he was starting to suspect that he wasn't about to anytime soon.

Harry glanced over Uncle Vernon's shoulder at the clock- one minute to noon. He wondered who Hogwarts would send to take him to Diagon Alley, and how they would get there. The Dursleys hadn't reacted very well to the Weasleys and Floo Powder, now that he thought of it.

Before he could dwell on the subject, the doorbell rang, and Harry, his aunt, and his uncle all jumped to their feet.

"Stay here," Uncle Vernon said gruffly to Aunt Petunia, placing a hand on her shoulder and puffing his chest out before making his way to the door. It only served to make his already too-small suit look even smaller, in Harry's opinion. "Who's there?"

"Professor Minerva McGonagall, Mr. Dursley," came the crisp reply, much to Harry's surprise.

It wasn't as though he'd _expected_ Hagrid- he'd probably only been sent last time due to his physical presence and the fact that Uncle Vernon had dragged them by force to a shack in the middle of the ocean. Still, he hadn't quite expected to see Professor McGonagall again so soon, not that he was complaining. He liked the Gryffindor Head of House; they'd developed a sort of mutual understanding over the years, even if that understanding didn't stop her from docking points from Gryffindor or giving him detention whenever she felt like it.

Uncle Vernon had taken hold of an umbrella leaning against the wall, though Harry wasn't entirely sure what he planned to do with it. Maybe the idea was the smack Professor McGonagall over the head if she tried any funny business. Harry didn't know what the outcome of doing that would be, but he did know he'd give all the gold in the world to watch it play out.

"Right," Uncle Vernon hissed, loudly enough that they could hear him from the living room. "Dudley- don't talk to her, and don't look at her. And you, boy- don't think we're inviting her in for tea, or- or for anything else. Your kind isn't welcome under my roof, do I make myself clear?"

"But Dad-" Dudley began to complain, having not had the experience of a pig's tail in this particular reality, but he was silenced the moment his father braced himself and swung the door open.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Dursley," Professor McGonagall said, an eyebrow raised at the umbrella but no comment on it made. "I presume Mr. Potter is ready?"

Harry hurried over, and was surprised to see that Professor McGonagall had obeyed Aunt Petunia's instructions to wear 'normal' clothing. She was dressed in the same Muggle dress she'd worn to 12 Grimmauld Place the summer Harry had his hearing at the Ministry. She directed the smallest trace of a smile in his direction, and once again he saw her eyes glance up and down, taking in his appearance. He was wearing an old t-shirt of Dudley's that hung nearly to his knees, and the cuffs of his jeans had needed to be rolled up several times before he could walk in them. His glasses were still broken; he was looking forward to getting a wand so he could repair them. He'd forgotten just how annoying it was to feel the tape holding both pieces together scratching against his nose.

"Well," Professor McGonagall said after a brief pause in which her eyes traveled from Harry's baggy clothes to the overly dressed Dursleys. "We'll be on our way, then. I'll have your nephew home by evening. I hope you don't mind if I use your fireplace."

"Fireplace?" Uncle Vernon asked blankly. Aunt Petunia seemed equally confused; apparently she'd never been exposed to travel through fireplace through her sister.

"The Ministry of Magic has temporarily connected your house to the Floo Network," Professor McGonagall explained in a matter-of-fact tone, brushing past Uncle Vernon and into the living room. "May I come in?"

"Seeing as you've already invited yourself," Uncle Vernon said, just loudly enough to be audible, and all at once Harry found himself sitting on a bench, gazing up at the sky.

Oh, God, it was happening again.

Harry stood up and found himself in a park he'd never seen before. He was walking, with no input or direction from his own brain, toward someone who looked familiar-

Ron?

It _was_ Ron, looking to be fifteen or sixteen years old. He was out of breath and seemed exhausted, but he lit up as he saw Harry. "Mate-"

"Listen," Harry said, or at least his body did, because he had no control over what was coming out of his mouth. "Ron, I didn't mean to worry any of you. I just thought that-"

Green flames.

Harry blinked. The park was gone, Ron was gone, and he was staring at the Dursley's fireplace once again.

"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said, and from the way she spoke it was clear she was saying it for a second or third time. "Mr. Potter, did you hear me?"

What had just happened? It was just the same as when he'd seen Cedric three days ago- just a glimpse of somewhere else, where he was himself but with no control over what he said or did. And this time Ron had been there, but he didn't remember ever having had a conversation like that with him, or having been in a park that looked like the one they'd been in.

"Mr. Potter-"

"Right," he said, a little too quickly, snapping his gaze to Professor McGonagall. "Sorry, I was just..."

This time she gave him an actual smile. "It does look rather dramatic to those who have never traveled by it before, but I assure you that Floo Powder is incredibly safe, just so long as you make sure to enunciate with _perfect _precision."

Aunt Petuna, her mouth wide open, stood behind Uncle Vernon, who had thrown both his arms out as though the fire would leap out and engulf them. "Dudley- get in the kitchen-"

Dudley's mouth was hanging open as well, but he showed none of the fear Harry was accustomed to seeing from him when it came to magic. He briefly wondered just what kind of effect having avoided Hagrid would have on him before turning back to Professor McGonagall.

"It's very simple," she said, returning a small pouch of what he imagined must be the Floo Powder that had summoned the flames to her robes. "All you need to do is step into the fireplace- I promise, the flames won't hurt you- and say 'Diagon Alley' as clearly and loudly as you can. I'll be right behind you."

Uncle Vernon let out a choking noise at the mention of stepping into the fireplace, but made no move to stop Harry as he stepped forward.

"Uh, right, then," Harry said, turning away from the fire and to the Dursleys. "I'll see you later, then."

No one responded- Uncle Vernon's expression was torn between outrage and fear, Aunt Petunia looked as though she were about to faint, and Dudley just looked bewildered. Professor McGonagall nodded at him kindly, and he inhaled, careful not to breathe in any ash, before saying, "Diagon Alley!"

* * *

Just what was going on? It was already hard enough to grasp that he'd woken up with the past six and a half years erased, but these visions (for lack of a better word) were even more puzzling. Cedric had died as a teenager- how could he have seen him as an adult? And the conversation with Ron in the park that had never happened-

Was he seeing the future of this timeline? Harry had never been one to believe in Divination, but he couldn't help but wonder. Still, he'd witnessed an actual prophecy being made, and this was nothing like that at all. Judging by Professor McGonagall's reaction he'd simply gone blank for a moment, not at all like Professor Trelawney at the end of his third year. And, come to think of it, Trelawney didn't remember any of her predictions afterward, not the ones that were real.

It just didn't make any _sense_.

It was late afternoon by this point, bordering on evening. Harry's arms were loaded down with supplies; all that was left on his list was his wand, which Professor McGonagall informed him they would purchase after a light dinner. As they walked back in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron, she explained various aspects of the Wizarding world- how many Knuts to a Sickle, what subjects he would take as a first year, and so on. She didn't seem to find it particularly unusual that he hadn't said much in response, probably believing that he had been struck speechless by his surroundings.

"You may find it difficult to remember everything at first," Professor McGonagall said. "But you'll quickly catch on, believe me."

Distracted by thoughts of unfamiliar parks and a bloodstained Cedric Diggory, it took Harry several moments to realize that she was looking at him expectantly. "Erm. Yeah... yeah, I suppose I will."

Diagon Alley- it was strange to see it so buoyant, the people so unconcerned. It was a far cry from the Diagon Alley he'd last seen, the one with boarded-up windows and run-down stalls.

"So... Professor," he said forcing himself to turn away from Florean Fortescue's ice cream shop, while trying not to think of what would happen to the man in later years. "Do you bring a lot of students here to buy supplies?"

"Not very many." She pursed her lips slightly before continuing. "Most parents accompany their children, even Muggle ones. They usually can't access Diagon Alley, but exceptions are made, especially in cases like these. A professor is only sent when a parent or guardian is unable to escort their child."

Or unwilling to, Harry thought, but he didn't say it out loud. They'd reached the Leaky Cauldron, and they entered it for the second time that day. Thankfully, Professor McGonagall was much less conspicuous than Hagrid had been, and there hadn't been a commotion as people realized who he was.

"Well, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said as they started on bowls of vegetable soup. "I imagine you must have questions for me."

Harry paused- he already had a pretty good grasp on how the Wizarding world worked, but he _did_ have questions, mostly relating to the fact that the last time he'd checked, he'd been seventeen years old. He thought back to the note in his handwriting (_Don't tell anyone)- why_ couldn't he remember writing it?- and chose his words carefully before speaking.

"I am sort of curious about one thing," he said. "About what kinds of magic there are."

"There are a great many kinds of magic, as I'm sure you'll discover." Professor McGonagall studied him, seeming almost impressed, probably assuming that he was a bookish sort of student, like Hermione. "I've already told you about the basic courses you'll take your during first two years at Hogwarts, but later you can take additional classes of your choice. There's the study of Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Muggle Studies, Care of Magical Creatures..." She trailed off, then added, almost as an afterthought, "There's also Divination. And Alchemy, but that's only available to sixth and seventh years, and only if there's sufficient demand."

Harry nodded, and asked several more questions (What was Arithmancy like? Did witches and wizards _really_ fly on brooms, or was that just a Muggle legend?) before getting to the point. Keeping his tone light, he said, "So, flying brooms are real, like in the stories. What about the other things? Can you... I dunno, go back in time if you wanted to?"

Professor McGonagall's lips turned upward, but she wasn't quite smiling. Instead she looked at him with an odd, almost unreadable sort of expression... was it pity?

"Time travel," she said slowly, "Is certainly possible, Mr. Potter, but I'm afraid it's not nearly as simple as you might think. There are objects that can be used to go back in time, but for no more than several hours at a time. They are also extremely regulated by the Ministry of Magic, and aren't accessible by the general public."

Harry wondered just how true that was, considering Hermione had been given a Time-Turner in their third year just because she'd had an overly crowded schedule. He didn't push it, though, and instead asked the next question on his mind. "It's only possible to go back a few hours, then? Not months, or years?"

"I'm afraid not." Professor McGonagall sighed, then said, "I presume this has to do with your parents, Mr. Potter."

Oh. Oh, no-

"Ah, well," Harry said quickly, not wanting to have this conversation with his former (future?) Head of House, and yet knowing that someone would have to tell him the story at _some _point. "Not really, I just... I'm just curious about the subject, and..."_  
_

Professor McGonagall placed her spoon down and linked her fingers together, her lips going very thin before asking, "How much did your relatives... how much did they tell you about your parents?"

"Erm..." Harry didn't want to be pitied, but he supposed it was better to get this conversation out of the way. "Well... they told me their names. And that they both died when I was a year old. In a... in a car crash."

Professor McGonagall didn't move. Nothing about her expression changed, except for her eyes, which had gone steely. "A car crash."

"Yes, Professor. And that that was how I got..." Harry gestured to his scar. "Well, this."

Professor McGonagall still wasn't moving. Harry, who thought he knew her fairly well, had no idea what she was going to do, and he wondered for a moment if she did either. Finally, after an excruciatingly long period of silence, she gathered herself together and inhaled deeply.

"I... would not normally consider it my place to be the one to tell you this, Mr. Potter." She spoke slowly, with a perfectly measured pace and a perfectly even tone. "I imagine your relatives had... their reasons for not telling you, perhaps... perhaps not wanting to frighten you. However, I'm afraid that you're going to find out the truth soon enough, and it would be better coming from me than a classmate. Your parents did not die in a car crash."

Harry stared at his half eaten soup, trying to remember how he'd reacted the first time he'd been told the truth about his parents. He'd been... well, he'd been sort of dazed, hadn't he? And he was pretty dazed now, albeit for a different reason, but at least it would make his reaction seem credible. "They didn't?"

"No." Professor McGonagall hesitated. "Mr. Potter... Harry. What you must know is that when you were born, our world was in the midst of a war. While you'll find most wizards and witches are well adjusted members of society, some are not. Some time ago a dark wizard gathered a group of followers and... began to take over."

"But... why?"

"Well. There were a great number of things, but..." Professor McGonagall sighed. "I suppose it comes down to the fact that this wizard, and his followers, were of the opinion that Muggles and, by extension, witches and wizards with Muggle parents or grandparents- well, that they were inferior to witches and wizards who were born to other witches and wizards. This is, of course, a view considered entirely unacceptable at Hogwarts and by most other witches and wizards. It is in no way true."

Harry nodded, and she continued. "This wizard... we don't use his name. You can't imagine the kind of fear and terror he was capable of..."

It was difficult not to say 'Try me', but Harry managed not to, instead staying silent as Professor McGonagall reached into one of the many bags they'd carried in and retrieved a bottle of ink, a quill, and a piece of parchment. Wordlessly, she wrote a single word down and nodded at him to look at it.

_Voldemort._

She then tore the parchment into several pieces, which vanished when she tapped them with her wand. "Some people are brave enough to say it, but I'd advise you not to, Mr. Potter. It reminds people of a time we'd very much like to forget. If you must speak of him, it would be best to say 'You-Know-Who', or 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named'."

"All right," Harry said- he'd given up calling Voldemort 'You-Know-Who' by the end of his first year, but he also knew that this was a time to keep his mouth shut on the subject.

"You-Know-Who killed many good, trustworthy people. I'm sorry to tell you that two of those people were your parents. However..." Professor McGonagall had never spoken to him in such a gentle tone before, not even after Dumbledore had died and she'd wanted to know what he'd entrusted Harry to do. "You-Know-Who didn't just kill your parents- he tried to kill you as well. And for reasons that... well, reasons that no one knows the answer to, he didn't succeed. It seems that the curse rebounded, and after that no one ever saw him again."

They sat in silence. Almost as though by reflex, Harry reached up and traced his scar with two fingers. "And... that's how I got my scar?"

Professor McGonagall nodded. "You'll find that in our world you're rather well known. You're... shall we say, somewhat famous. Your fellow classmates may ask you questions about that night, or whether you remember anything. You are in no way obligated to answer them if you do not wish to do so."

She straightened up, watching him carefully, waiting to see his reaction. Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and was surprised at the weight that had settled into his chest. He'd heard the story so many times before, but being told it as though he'd never heard it was... well, it was different. It made it feel almost new, despite his knowing far more about what had happened that night than even Professor McGonagall.

"Your interest in time travel is very understandable," she went on to say, returning to the subject that had started the conversation. "Even if one doesn't take your... situation into consideration. Many students come to Hogwarts curious about the manipulation of time- I must admit that it is a highly interesting subject- but as I told you before, it is a highly regulated and extremely limited form of magic. To answer your question, Mr. Potter, no, one could not travel months or years back in time. I'm afraid that it is quite impossible."

Then how in the world were they having this conversation? Harry turned back to his soup, which had just begun to go cold, and tried to hide his disappointment and confusion. Professor McGonagall wasn't lying, was she? If she _did _know of a way to travel back in time the way he had, she'd probably say so, or at least not deny its existence. But if even she, one of the most intelligent people Harry knew, didn't know about it, how on earth had _he_ himself managed to send himself back? And for God's sake, why couldn't he remember doing it?

They ate the remainder of their meal in near-silence. Professor McGonagall was likely giving him space to process what she'd told him about his parents, while Harry tried to figure out what to do next. The plan hadn't changed- he still planned to free Sirius from Azkaban first, then find a way to retrieve the locket from 12 Grimmauld Place. In the meantime, it was mainly a matter of waiting. And figuring out what the hell was going on.

"There's one more thing I was curious about," Harry said. "You mentioned Divination is a subject at Hogwarts. That's sort of like seeing the future, right?"

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips- Harry had known this would likely be a useless inquiry, but he had to give it a try. "Divination is a very complex subject that very few successfully attempt, much less master. However, given the person in question is a _true _seer... then yes, it does involve seeing the future, at least in most cases."

Thinking of the two visions he'd had thus far, Harry asked, "Does a person know when they see the future? Does every seer see the future the same way?"

"I've never seen the revelation of a prophecy firsthand," Professor McGonagall said slowly. "But it is said that the speaker goes into a trance and cannot remember any part of the process."

Just as he'd thought. He hadn't really believed the visions were prophecies, but... well, he had no way of knowing if they weren't. After all, Professor McGonagall had just said it was impossible to travel more than several hours in time, and here he was.

Harry remembered something as they started to leave the Leaky Cauldron. "Wait! Before we get my wand... my letter said I could bring a pet to school, didn't it?"

"That's right. You may bring an owl, a cat, or a toad." Professor McGonagall began to guide them away from Ollivanders and toward the Magical Menagerie. "I must admit that I'm rather partial to cats, but owls are extremely useful. I gather you know from your Hogwarts letter that that's how we deliver mail?"

Harry nodded, moving more quickly as they grew closer to the shop. "It said that Hogwarts was awaiting my owl."

"Unnecessary in your case- I made a note after our first meeting," Professor McGonagall said. Harry had never seen her smile so much in one day since Gryffindor had won the Quidditch Cup.

They'd reached the Magical Menagerie. It was difficult for Harry not to enter at a run, and for a moment he was afraid he wouldn't find what he was looking for. But then, he turned his head, and saw a flash of white inside a cage near the door.

Hedwig.

Harry stared at her, hardly able to believe it was the same owl. The awful shriek she'd let out as the Killing Curse had hit her rang through his ears. It suddenly seemed like a very bad idea to buy her again. After all, he planned to track down the Horcruxes again, and last time-

But this wasn't last time, was it? Voldemort was still without a body. Peter Pettigrew wasn't going to track down his former master; Harry wasn't going to be lured to the graveyard this time. He had time to round up and destroy the Horcruxes, and there was a damn good chance that Voldemort would never regain his body. There wouldn't be a battle over Little Whinging. Just like the note said, he was getting a second chance. No one would have to die. No one except himself or Voldemort, but he'd come to terms with that long before hearing the prophecy.

Except-

Hedwig gazed at him, not with the same deep familiarity he was accustomed to, but it was a friendly gaze all the same. It was the way she'd looked during that month before he'd gone off to his first year at Hogwarts, when he and the Dursleys had barely exchanged two words with one another. That month when it had just been the two of them, when the magical world was exciting and free of Death Eaters and Dementors.

Professor McGonagall reached through the bars of the cage and held out a finger for the snowy owl to inspect. Hedwig studied it for a moment before gently nipping her finger and sticking her head out to be stroked.

"You have fine taste, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said, nodding in approval. "I should tell you that Hogwarts does have its own supply of owls for student use, however..."

Maybe it was a mistake, but Harry knew as he reached out to stroke Hedwig that he wouldn't be leaving without her. And that this time would be different- he would make sure of it.

* * *

Hermione, her eyes glassy, dead from the basilisk's gaze.

An unfamiliar mountainous landscape, Harry seemingly the only person for miles around.

A mundane glimpse of a History of Magic lesson.

Fred Weasley, younger than Harry had ever seen him, clutching the motionless body of his mother next to a lake.

Draco Malfoy and himself sharing Chocolate Frogs in the Slytherin Common Room.

A month had passed since the trip to Diagon Alley, and since then Harry had experienced five more visions. They didn't seem to follow any sort of pattern. The one of Hermione had come six days after the one of Ron in the park. Eleven days after that had come the second. The next day had come the third, and then nothing until the day before this one, when the fourth and the fifth had both occurred within the same hour.

Harry had no idea what they meant. He'd never experienced any of the visions firsthand, except for possibly the History of Magic lesson. But Hermione's body- Malfoy and the Chocolate Frogs- they weren't a sign of things to come, were they? Except he'd never seen Fred Weasley that young; even in that fast glimpse, Harry could see that he was barely eight years old.

When he got to Hogwarts, he resolved, he was going to see if he could find anything in the library that might explain things. Hopefully Dumbledore would give him the Invisibility Cloak for Christmas again, so he could explore it in its entirety. He'd also taken to writing down the date and time of every vision he'd had so far, making sure to keep the list on him at all times, along with the note he'd carried since waking up in the cupboard. He wanted to list the details of each vision as well, but there was always the risk of someone coming across it. Once he got to Hogwarts, he'd put a few charms on the paper to make it readable only by himself; until then he simply had to wait.

Harry glanced at his wand. It was the same as last time- eleven inches, holly, phoenix feather core. He was happy to have it back, even if he couldn't use it until the term started. The last thing he needed was to get on the bad side of the Ministry before even making it to school. It really wasn't fair- students who weren't Muggleborn or living with Muggles could do all the magic they wanted, and no one would be any the wiser.

He'd survive, though. It was just one more day. Then, once he was at Hogwarts, he could do whatever he wanted, provided he kept quiet about it.

Once he got to Hogwarts, though- he still had a basic plan for the first Horcrux, but after that... well, he wasn't quite sure yet. It was going to be difficult to sneak around and take down Voldemort without anyone noticing, especially given the fact that he appeared to be eleven. Especially when it came to Dumbledore, and his Legilimency. Harry had never mastered Occlumency, and he knew that if Dumbledore attempted to probe his mind, he'd succeed with only the most minimal effort. And then there was Snape.

Harry wasn't sure how he wasn't going to hex Snape into oblivion the moment he saw him. He'd killed Dumbledore. He'd killed Dumbledore, and he'd betrayed Harry's parents. And Harry was just supposed to sit there and pretend that he wasn't a traitor, a double-crosser?

The worst thing was that he was going to have to be especially careful around Snape, and not give him any reason to probe his thoughts, not if he didn't want to be revealed as anything other than an oblivious eleven year old boy. If Snape realized what was really going on, everything would be ruined- Harry planned to deal with Pettigrew early on, but Snape could very easily take his place. Seeing as Harry was trying to defeat Voldemort without him realizing what he was doing, Snape coming to him with information was the last thing he needed.

That meant he couldn't let Snape use Legilimency against him, especially not while he struggled so much with Occlumency. If Snape insulted him (and of course he would, he was Snape), he would try his best to not retort with anything in response. He'd have to avoid eye contact. He'd have to let everything wash over him-

But how could he do that? Snape was Voldemort's right hand man. He was a traitor; he was responsible for so many deaths-

Harry rubbed his eyes. He had a throbbing headache, and no idea what to do next. Hedwig hooted from her cage, and, from his bed, Harry offered her a small smile.

Right- he'd focus on one small thing at a time, instead of everything at once. Tomorrow he'd be on the Hogwarts Express, and he'd be sorted into a House- hopefully the Sorting Hat would treat his sorting like any other and not mention what he saw in Harry's mind.

Would he stay in Gryffindor this time around? Harry considered going into another house, but he couldn't really see how it would benefit him any more than being in Gryffindor. He probably wouldn't end up with the Marauder's Map if he wasn't in Gryffindor, and that had been utterly invaluable in his past life. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff didn't seem as though they'd help him much, at least not any more than Gryffindor had, and if he was trying to avoid Snape, Slytherin was the last thing he needed. Besides, Dumbledore was sure to probe his mind if he ended up in the same house as Tom Riddle.

Harry thought back to the note- _Just go with it._ In a situation like this, how was he supposed to just go with it? What had he been thinking, writing something like that?

Glancing at his wand, Harry again wished he could use it. Maybe he could- after all, hadn't Hermione said the first time they met on the Hogwarts Express that she'd already managed a few simple spells? McGonagall had told him when he bought his wand that the Ministry would know if he performed non-accidental magic, but was that just something told to students but not actually enforced until their first holiday away from school?

He wasn't going to risk it. For all he knew, Hermione had practiced magic while visiting Diagon Alley, or earlier the day they'd met on the Hogwarts Express. Besides, even if it was technically permitted, if the Ministry saw he was performing magic no first year feasibly knew, especially one raised as a Muggle-

Tomorrow. He'd made it a month so far, and could make it another day. Tomorrow he'd go to Hogwarts. Tomorrow everything would begin again.

* * *

There was one last thing he hadn't thought of. With so much on his mind, it wasn't until the barrier to Platform 9 3/4 was within sight that he realized there was something he'd been overlooking.

Harry slowly approached the barrier, pushing his trolley (which was surprisingly heavy- Harry was having trouble getting used to being so much smaller). Everything was happening the way it had the first time. He'd woken up at five in the morning and paced his room, waiting for the Dursleys to wake up. He'd ridden to Kings Cross with them in near silence. He'd watched as they'd returned to their car, self-satisfied with their apparent discovery that there was no Platform 9 3/4.

And now, just as he had last time, Harry heard what would become a very familiar voice.

"-packed with Muggles, of course-"

Mrs. Weasley strode past, looking harried but alert, holding Ginny's hand- except this wasn't the Ginny Harry had spent many quiet afternoons with throughout the Hogwarts grounds, but an impossibly young, baby-faced Ginny who was begging her mother to let her go to Hogwarts as well. Fred and George were there, identical; George's ear was still intact. Percy ran a finger across his prefect badge, his chest puffed out, not yet trying to distance himself from his family, or at least not to the point that he wouldn't speak to them.

And then there was Ron. The last time Harry had seen him (aside from the visions) had been... how long _had _it been? A month had passed at least, maybe even two, since he'd stormed out of the tent, leaving the hunt for Horcruxes to Harry and Hermione. Harry stared at the boy who had been his friend- because despite everything, he _had_ been Harry's friend- and found himself wondering if it was wise to make him his friend again. Because even if Ron _was _his friend, the Weasleys had suffered- Ginny being dragged into the Chamber of Secrets, George's ear being blasted off, Mr. Weasley nearly dying in the Department of Mysteries, all because of him-

But none of that was going to happen this time, was it? And the Weasleys were the closest thing Harry had to a family, or at least they _had _been.

Except-

Ginny had noticed him. She gently pulled her hand loose from her mother's and took a few steps toward him, nodding at Hedwig. "She's pretty. Is she yours?"

Harry's mouth was dry; for a moment he thought he wouldn't be able to speak. None of this seemed real; he wasn't quite sure how he was standing next to his ex-girlfriend who was somehow ten years old, near his former best friend who had no idea who he was, more than six years in the past.

_Just go with it._

"Uh... yeah." Harry glanced at Hedwig, who was remarkably relaxed in the noisy, crowded station. "She's mine."

"I wish I had an owl of my own." Ginny smiled at Harry, then at Hedwig. "What's her name?"

Harry wondered for a moment why she wasn't terrified of him- hadn't she been unable to form a sentence around him for years? Except Ginny didn't know he was Harry Potter yet, that he was (as much as Harry hated the term) a _celebrity_. As far as she knew, he was just one of many students about to go off to Hogwarts.

"Ginny!" Mrs. Weasley called over. "Stop bothering the boy, the train will be leaving any moment!"

"It's fine, M-" Harry cleared his throat awkwardly before he could say 'Mrs. Weasley'. To Ginny, he added quickly, "Her name's Hedwig."

"I don't believe I've seen you before," Mrs. Weasley said as Ginny and Harry approached her. "Are you new at Hogwarts? It's Ron's first year too."

Ron glanced at him and nodded before staring back down at the station floor, looking rather pale.

"Yes," said Harry, glancing at the wall in front of them. "I suppose I just..."

"Yes, right through the barrier over there. Don't worry, you won't crash- best to go at a bit of a run if you're nervous."

Harry nodded, thinking of all the summers he'd spent at the Burrow, of all the times Mrs. Weasley had fussed over him, and tried not to focus on how she was looking at him now- kindly enough, but only as someone to help, not as an honorary son.

"Right- thanks, then-" Harry forced himself to turn away, still utterly unsure if it would be the right thing to befriend them again (and not knowing how he'd stand it if he didn't), and started toward the barrier. Before he knew it, he'd passed through. In front of him was the familiar scarlet steam engine that he'd expected never to see again, at least not as a student. And the people around him-

It had been strange enough to see the Dursleys looking younger than he remembered. It had been even stranger to see Professor McGonagall that way, and the Weasleys stranger still. But now Harry saw countless people he'd grown up with looking as though the past six years hadn't happened at all. Neville Longbottom was there, looking frantically for his toad- Lee Jordan- the Patil twins-

Harry's breath caught in his throat. It had only been the fastest of glimpses, but a glimpse all the same- he'd seen Cedric Diggory hug his mother and father goodbye before disappearing onto the train.

_Just go with it?_ How was he supposed to _just go_ _with_ _this?_

And yet, somehow he was moving. Somehow he was dragging his trunk, slowly but surely, across the threshold of the train. Somehow he was able to yank it into a nearby compartment (though not able to lift it onto the overhead rack). His head was spinning, and it took a while for him to realize that they were moving- that the train had pulled out of the station several moments ago, that they were on their way to Hogwarts.

Harry thought of the note in his pocket. Students were allowed to use magic on the train, weren't they? Quickly, before anyone entered the compartment, he reached into his pocket and pulled his wand out. Anticipation flowed through him; he'd _missed_ doing magic. Trying to keep his hand from shaking, he tapped the scrap of parchment with the tip of his wand three times. "Aparecium!"

The familiar words of the note stared back at him, but they weren't alone- a new message, also in Harry's handwriting, had appeared underneath it.

_'RS 3, 7, 4, 15, 566.'_

Harry stared. _What?_ What in the world was that supposed to mean? Was he supposed to recognize it? Was it some sort of instruction? To do what?

"Erm..."

Harry looked up sharply and saw Ron Weasley standing at the partially ajar compartment door. He quickly stuffed the note in his pocket and lowered his wand. "O- Oh. Hi again."

"Hey." Ron pushed the door open further and smiled slightly sheepishly. "Listen... do you mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full."

"Er..." Harry was painfully aware of the note in his pocket- could it be a coded explanation to why he was having those visions, and what they meant? "Sure. Have a seat."

Ron let out a barely noticeable sigh of relief and heaved his own trunk into the compartment. Harry got to his feet to help him, trying to push aside his confusion, and assured himself that he'd figure it out soon enough. Somehow.

Somehow things had seemed far less complicated the last time he'd been on the train to his first year at Hogwarts.


End file.
